The Game

between those in the community and lone wolves like Warren Beatty (when he was single), Brett Ratner, and David Blaine is that we name our techniques and share our information.
    “I don’t know what this director’s problem is,” Courtney was saying. “I have a magic pussy. If you fuck me, you become a king. I’m a kingmaker.” (Translation: If you fuck her, you become famous.)
    She began pulling the needles out of my body. Relief. “You have to get one in your head. It’s the best feeling.”
    Fumbling around the floor, Courtney grabbed a dirty needle. She aimed it just above my eye.
    “No thanks. I’ve had enough for today.”
    “You gotta try it. It’s great for the liver.”
    “My liver’s fine, thanks.”
    She dropped the needle back to the floor. “Fine. I’m going out to get some Rice Krispie Treats then.”
    She wriggled out of her pink shirt and stood in front of me topless.
    “These are natural breasts but with a silicone lift,” she said, hovering over me and revealing a scar underneath her left mammary. “Do you know how much a shot of my tits is worth? Nine thousand dollars.”
    “Then your problems are solved,” I suggested.
    “That won’t even get me in the door at the lawyer’s office,” she snapped, slipping into a black-and-white baby-doll dress.
    When she returned from the store, she was flushed with excitement. She pulled a coffee cake out of her bag and split it in half, leaving a trail of crumbs behind her as she made for the safety of her bed. “Let’s make a bet,” she said.
    “What?”
    “I will bet you that I can get this director back.”
    “I doubt you can. If he’s not returning your calls, he’s not interested.”
    “He even denied he’d slept with me in the Post.” She handed me half of the coffee cake in her blackened fingers. “But I like a challenge.”
    “Well, if you can get him back, you’re a better pickup artist than I am.”
    “Then let’s bet,” she insisted.
    “What are the stakes?”
    “If I can’t get him back, I will give you a one-week stand with me—wherever you want.”
    I looked at her blankly. I was so taken aback by the notion that I had trouble processing the words.
    “Or you can pick the middle name of my next child. It’s your choice.”
    “Okay.”
    “But I have one condition: I get an hour of advice with each pickup artist you’re living with.”
    When it came time for me to leave and catch my plane, Courtney climbed out of bed and kissed me good-bye.
    “I just need to be fucked,” she said as I waited for the elevator that would take me out of her loft. “I just need a bossy guy to come here and fuck me.”
    I knew I could have been that guy. The IOIs were there. But there’s a PUA’s code of honor, there’s a gambler’s code of honor, and there’s a journalist’s code of honor. And having sex with her would have been violating all three.
    What I had told Dustin that morning in my apartment really was true: Learning pickup had enriched so much more than just my sex life. The skills I had amassed in the community made me a much better interviewer than I’d ever been. I discovered just how good when I was assigned an interview with Britney Spears.

Was there a lot of pressure on you while making this album?
    What, now?

    Was there a lot of pressure from yourself or the label to have a major hit this time around?
    I have no idea.

    You have no idea?
    I have no idea.

    I heard you did a track with the DFA that wasn’t included on your new CD. Why was that?
    What’s the DFA?

    They’re two producers from New York, James Murphy and Tim Goldsworthy, who call themselves the DFA. Does that ring a bell?
    Yeah, maybe they did something.

    My interview with Britney Spears was going nowhere. I looked at her, crossing her legs and fidgeting on the hotel-room couch next to me. She didn’t give a shit. I was just an amount of time blocked off on her calendar, and she was tolerating it—poorly.
    Her hair was tucked under a white Kangol hat and her thighs pushed at the seams of her faded blue jeans. She was one of the most desired women in the world. But in person, she looked like a cornfed Southern sorority girl. She had a beautiful face, lightly and perfectly touched with makeup, but there was something masculine about her. As a sexual icon, she was unintimid and, I imagined, lonely.
    A gear slammed down in my head.
    There was only one way to save this interview: I had to sarge her. No matter what country I was